Danger-Close: A Jake Thunder Adventure (The Jake Thunder Adventures Book 1)

by Jon F. Merz

  I leaned back and sighed. "Thanks for taking care of that."

  "You're welcome."

  I put in a call to McCloskey. He grabbed the phone even before the first ring finished. "Yeah?"

  "It's me."

  "I know it's you, ya idiot. I got Caller ID, remember?"

  "You cops and your little toys. Honestly."

  "You got news or not?"

  "I got another buy set up for tonight."

  "No shit?"

  "Yeah."

  "For who, this guy Thompson you were telling me about?"

  "Uh, yeah. But listen Frank, we gotta talk about that. Can you drop by the office so we can strategize about this?"

  "Right now?"

  "Unless you got something more important to take care of, yeah."

  "Important being the relative term." He sighed. "Yeah, okay. I'm on my way."

  I hung up. I realized that the vast majority of this case had so far dictated that I spend an inordinate amount of time on the telephone. I was beginning to feel like the operator I used to see in old films, plugging in jacks and disconnecting others.

  Jim Beam hadn't spoken to me since the other day. Maybe he was mad at me.

  Maybe I didn't much care anymore what he thought about me.

  The thing that bothered me the most – at least in one area of this case – was that Neal Thompson would, in all likelihood, go to jail for taking possession of a kidnapped child.

  The thing was I didn't think he deserved to go to jail. As far as Thompson knew, the baby hadn't been kidnapped at all. The birth parents had simply abandoned her or sold her.

  Thompson thought he'd be giving this child the kind of home the baby deserved. Was that so wrong? After all, when the system breaks down and fails to help those who really need help, is bending the law so wrong?

  I could hear Jim Beam laughing as he cross-examined my logic. Well, fuck him. I was entitled to my opinions.

  I had a bad feeling about tonight's buy. Something felt wrong about what could happen. Given that Major Dave would most likely want to be involved. And the fact that the unknown shooter was still at large, that there were just god-awful amounts of loose ends that I was no way near solving. It all added up to a heaving headache of biblical proportions.

  I slid the drawer open and the bottle of Jim Beam winked at me. Just one small little sip, it seemed to say, I'll make the headache go away.

  I nudged the bottle aside and reached for the Tylenol that lay next to it. Not today, I said and slid the drawer shut again, popped two pills and dry-swallowed them.

  McCloskey showed up ten minutes later as I was rubbing my closed eyes with the back of my hands.

  "You been crying?"

  I looked up. "No. Headache."

  He slumped into my client chair. "Always the sure sign of a hard-working pro."

  "Hard-working, yeah. Pro, maybe not so much."

  "I didn't come here to bolster your sagging self-confidence. Spit out what you need from me and let me get back to doing my job."

  I sniffed. "Ah, Frank, your sense of compassion truly overwhelms me."

  "Don't I fucking know it. So, what gives?"

  I laid out the details of the buy. He leaned back. "Forest Hills, huh?"

  "Yeah."

  "And he said he could guarantee there'd be no T cops around?"

  "Said they'd be diverted elsewhere. I assume that means he's going to be concocting some kind of diversionary tactic."

  "Like what?"

  "Darmov's capable of anything. Maybe just a bomb scare. Maybe a bomb."

  "Wonderful. And naturally, I can't do shit about this."

  "Natch."

  "What else?"

  I frowned. This would be tough. "Guy making the buy tonight."

  "Thompson."

  "Yeah."

  "What about him?"

  "I don't want him arrested, Frank."

  His eyes popped open. "Excuse me Ð you don't want Ð you?" He chuckled. "Well, Jake, I hate to tell you this, but the guy has to go down. We're talking about a federal crime here. Taking possession of a kidnapped child is some serious business. Hell, I may not even have any pull in it. The Feds are already involved in this case as it is."

  "Oh shit, Frank, they're involved in every kidnapping case. You know as well as I do they're already stressed to capacity. They won't pay much attention to this one. Hell, they'd probably be glad to follow your lead on it."

  "I meant Feds as in Major Dave."

  "I don't think arresting Thompson is what's giving Major Dave a hard-on."

  "Probably not. So, why you want us to go easy on this guy?"

  "You think about it Frank. Guy and his wife just want a kid. As far as he knows, it wasn't kidnapped. The baby was sold by her birth mom who didn't want her anymore."

  "You think it'd matter if he knew the real parents were frantic about the safety of their kid?"

  "Of course it would."

  McCloskey leaned back and puffed his cheeks out like Louis Armstrong as he sighed again. "You know you are going to be the death of me, doncha?"

  "You'll get off lucky if I'm the cause of it."

  "Probably." He glanced around the office. "Speaking of spooks, you talk to Major Dave today?"

  "Yep."

  "He his usual talkative self?"

  "Actually, he told me a lot."

  "That's just like him. Says he won't but he usually does. Especially if he feels it'll help him achieve his goals."

  "You saying he knew what he was doing?"

  "Well, shit, it wasn't your sparkling personality that made him some sort of conversationalist on speed this afternoon."

  "That's it, kick me while I'm down."

  "Darmov'll be there tonight?"

  "Yeah."

  "Any uninvited guests expected?"

  "Assumed and expected, yep."

  "Maybe we should call Major Dave and let him know about the party. What do you think?"

  "I'd rather not. We get him involved, there's no telling how this thing might end up."

  "Good point." McCloskey rubbed his chin. "You know, he finds out that we didn't tell him and he's liable to be mighty pissed."

  "Yep."

  "You don't care."

  I shook my head. "I care about a lot of things: Neal Thompson and his wife experiencing the joys of bringing up children, Darmov getting his due, and finding out who the hell has been taking pot shots at me all week long."

  "I didn't hear Major Dave mentioned in that list."

  I fixed him with stare. "That's absolutely correct. You sure didn't."

  He nodded. "Fair enough. I'll see you tonight."

  I watched him go and tried to grin. But the thoughts of what tonight might bring kept the grin from spreading very far.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The Forest Hills bus yard used to be a bustling hive of activity for the MBTA public transportation department of Massachusetts. In the old days, when I was growing up, the Orange Line train ran above the street level over Washington Street and the line ended at Forest Hills. Nearby, old green trolleys would shudder and clank their way out of the yard stuttering up Centre Street and running all the way into Copley Square and beyond to Park Street. School buses and other buses would also end their various routes there.

  To a child, it was always exciting. Trains, buses, and trolleys fascinated me with their huge size and the sheer volumes of people they carried. I used to wonder where everyone was traveling to. And on those occasions when I would ride the Orange Line with my family into what was now Downtown Crossing to do some shopping, the entire city sprawled out before the windows like some great fantasyland full of adventure.

  Over the years, Forest Hills changed.

  For one thing, the Orange Line became a subway. The hulking green track supports that used to line Washington Street disappeared. The Southwest Corridor, a sunken track system covered with green parks and playgrounds, became the route for the trains coming out of Forest Hills.

/>   The trolleys disappeared as well. Local activists with no sense of driving skills used to clamor for their return, never realizing that it made better sense to use buses instead. Environmentally, the new clean-burning buses were a smarter choice than the old electric trolleys anyway.

  The 39 Bus now made the run from Forest Hills to Copley Square in place of the old trolleys. Officially, it was designated as the E train on the Green Line. Most folks in Jamaica Plain just called it "the 39."

  School buses didn't use the area much anymore, either. It was a lot safer dropping kids off elsewhere. And the Forest Hills T station itself underwent a face-lift. A much needed one, if you asked anyone from my area.

  That said, the bus yard became something of a giant unused piece of property still owned by the MBTA. A few years back, they'd torn down some of the larger buildings, and for a while they'd even used it as a place for commuters to park their cars for three bucks a day.

  That was then.

  Nowadays, you had a yard that didn't see much activity. A few old building with corrugated tin siding sprawled toward the rear. Old tracks still lay ensconced in tar and cement. And the only real activity you'd see on occasion was a bus coming out or going in and the inevitable MBTA police patrol car cruising the scene.

  I wheeled myself down Seaverns Avenue at about seven o'clock. I crossed Green Street T station and got onto the other side of it heading toward Washington Street. Guilfoil's, the drinking hole for many of Boston's political elite and a fair share of neighborhood denizens stood on one side of a side street.

  Stan's BBQ stood on the other, spilling out mouth-watering scents of barrel-smoked ribs, wings, and chicken. I wheeled myself up to the door just in time to catch someone coming out. They held the door while I wheeled myself in.

  The dŽcor inside was Spartan. A few tables with checkered red and white tablecloths and a giant bullhead crashing through one wall gave it character.

  But the food made it worthwhile.

  Stan himself was about the nicest guy you could ever meet. He'd come up to Boston by way of Alabama and Texas with short stops at almost everywhere in between. His bald head gleamed from a sheen of sweat he gained working the smokers and ovens non-stop.

  Otherwise, the service was a little slow.

  But then again, things move a little slower down south anyway. And damned if the food wasn't worth waiting for.

  I ordered a chopped barbecue sandwich, which looked a lot like pulled pork, with Stan's special sauce. I got a small order of wings and macaroni and cheese on the side. At my table, I used the extra sauce on the mac and cheese, loving the way it gave the meal an extra kick.

  What the hell, I figured, if I was going to end up dead tonight, I might as well have a great last dinner.

  McCloskey wandered in a few minutes later and sat down across from me. He looked at the food.

  He looked tired.

  I sighed. "Want a wing?"

  He shook his head. "Nah, just came from next door. Had the boiled dinner."

  I shuddered. Boiled dinners are one of those things I have never been able to fathom. Boiled cabbage? God. The sheer thought of it made me ill.

  Fortunately, the chopped barbecue sandwich helped put it out of my mind. "I don't know how you can eat that stuff," I said to McCloskey.

  "I'm Irish. It's in the blood."

  "Lucky for you."

  "Enjoying your last dinner?"

  "Kinda feels that way, doesn't it?"

  "Kinda," said McCloskey. "I'm an eternal optimist though."

  I snorted Pepsi. "You're kidding me. When did that transformation happen?"

  McCloskey waved me off. "I got the place down there buttoned up pretty well. Although the SWAT team is sitting this one out. Apparently the commander said since things went south last time, he didn't want his boys in jeopardy."

  I frowned. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought jeopardy is what they're supposed to be all about."

  "You and me both. Guy's a real whiner. Got my boss to back his opinion that SWAT wasn't needed. Doesn't matter." He looked up at the sound of the bells jangling against Jake's front door. McCloskey was like any other cop: always surveying the scene, studying who's coming into their territory. Curious but nonchalant at the same time. He glanced back at me. "What time you meeting Thompson?"

  I checked my watch. Tonight was one of the rare times I was actually wearing one. "In about thirty minutes."

  "I'd better get going then." He stood. "I'll be watching. Don't try to be a hero, Jake, okay? We'll have the place wired for sound anyway. If you can get Darmov talking, well and good but we've got enough video in there to take him down even if he acts like Marcel Marceau."

  "Don't forget about Thompson."

  He frowned. "Yeah. I got it worked out. I don't like it, but I got it worked out."

  "Thanks, Frank."

  He walked out leaving me to the wings. I wiped my mouth and thought about everything that was going on. In my pocket, I had the compiled research that Brenda had worked on for me.

  Neal Thompson wasn't going home with a baby tonight. Hopefully, he wouldn't need to. And if everything panned out, it wouldn't matter much.

  I just hoped I'd be able to keep him alive long enough to see things work out the way they should.

  As far as dealing with Darmov, I was still grappling with the choices facing me. On one hand, I hated the thought of him walking away from the murders and the children he'd scarred forever. He'd kidnapped, murdered, and done God knew what else.

  Major Dave wanted to offer him asylum in exchange for information about some worthless terrorist scumbag named Bin Laden.

  I hate terrorists. I saw firsthand what they can do to innocent civilians. Back when the World Trade Center got destroyed, I knew ten federal agents who lost their lives because they were trying to save some of the people still trapped inside.

  They didn't have to do that. They could have saved themselves. But they chose not to. And they died doing the honorable thing.

  And since there's not a whole lot of honor in the world today, I took that kind of hard. As far as I was concerned, Osama Bin Laden deserved to die a very painful prolonged excruciating death, preferably brought about by burying him up to his neck in the sand, pouring honey all over his head and letting army ants eat him alive. I heard that they do it that way over in the Golden Triangle area of Cambodia, Laos, and Myanmar. Supposedly, it takes up to a week for the ants to gradually eat their way through and cause death.

  Extreme, I know.

  But terrorists don't play by the rules. Neither should we.

  I finished another wing and sighed. I belched as the carbon dioxide from the Pepsi crept up and out of my nose making me wince instinctively. I leaned back.

  A damned fine dinner.

  If I'd had any room, the pecan pie would have been a fine way to finish things off. I considered it for a minute.

  And then decided not to.

  I cleared my plates and trash and tossed them into the garbage can near the door. I waved to Stan who was busy in the kitchen cajoling the latest addition to his staff into exerting a little more effort.

  Outside, the evening was drawing down the shades of night. A cool breeze whipped up off the sidewalk. I wheeled to my left, past the Midway CafŽ, Jamaica Plain's most intriguing choice for live music. I say intriguing because the eclectic mix of bikers, vegans, and drunks usually made for a fight every once in a while.

  Outside the Spanish market, a few local kids leaned against the hood of a Toyota and whistled at the woman walking by in a miniskirt.

  I stopped, too.

  I waggled my eyebrows, exchanged a high-five with one of the guys and then kept rolling. By the Laundromat, I paused until the light changed, then coasted down the ramp and then back up on the other side. Cars were still pulling in at the you-wash-it car wash next door. The sound of high-powered vacuums and sprays broke into the monotony of cars whizzing past down Washington Street.

  And further on,
the bus yard stood alone.

  A chain link fence separated it from the sidewalk. Further on, it opened up. There was a security house inside sometimes manned by an old retired guy with too much facial hair and not enough on top of his head.

  Tonight, he was nowhere to be seen.

  I rolled into the yard, sticking close to the side by the fence. I was low enough in the chair that not many people would even notice me cruising along. And what with darkness coming, my stealth was almost assured.

  I knew McCloskey was out there somewhere. Along with a lot more cops. It made me feel a little better. But only just. The yard was quiet in that way that graveyards are.

  In a way, this was a graveyard like any other. Only instead of human spirits, the ghosts of old buses and trolleys haunted this place.

  I shivered in the breeze and rolled on toward the building Darmov had told me about. I could see holes in the frosted glass. As I drew closer, I could smell the mustiness seeping out.

  Neal Thompson was going to freak out when he got here.

  I rolled into the building and hoped this wouldn't take all that long.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The inside of the building was a hollowed-out shell that looked more like an airplane hangar than a bus terminal. Rusted iron struts poked out of the bumpy cement and coagulated clumps of tar at odd angles, jutting toward the roof. Beneath the wheels of my chair, bits of old newspapers and broken glass crunched under my weight.

  I rolled further in, aware of the lingering scent of oil and gas fumes. All the glass was opaque, covered in dense soot that only comes from years of bus exhaust staining everything in sight.

  The only light in the building came from a small red bulb roughly fifty feet overhead. It threw the faintest of illumination over the place but also seemed to extend the reach of the shadows ahead of me. I couldn't see anything much further on.

  How McCloskey had this place wired for video and sound was beyond me. I figured he must have used infrared to some extent, but he'd still need clear video if he hoped to use it in a court of law. Trying to explain to a jury that the red and yellow figure on the tape really is a baby kidnapper would take a lot of skill.

  I stopped midway into the building. Venturing further into the darkness wasn't my idea of a good time.